in,
and the flow of the Rottiniga; and now instead of the festal sounds
from the city, which had gradually died down, a nightingale who had her
nest under the window, began to sing so sweet and amorous a strain,
that tears came to the eyes of the solitary maiden as she listened. She
felt her heart so heavy and oppressed that she rose, put out her light,
and threw a dark cloak over her shoulders. Then she went down the steep
and narrow stair, opened the house-door, and stepped into the empty
street just to take a few steps in the cool night air, and quiet her
beating pulses. But lost in her own thoughts as she was, she forgot to
draw her hood about her head, so that although the moon did not shine
into the street, she was easily to be recognized by any passer-by. And
now, through a chance which, like all else that is earthly, obeyed a
higher will, she encountered the very one her thoughts--like moths
about a candle--had been fluttering round the whole day through.

"It was no other than Attilio, who had long ago been weary of all the
honour done him, and who more exhausted by the revel and riot of the
feast, than by the tumult of a battle-field, had made a pretext of his
wound to slip away from the banquet, and alone and unrecognized, visit
the old haunts where he had played as a boy. But still stronger was his
impulse and longing to try whether he might not chance again to meet
those eyes the glance of which was still glowing in his heart. He had
by well-put questions elicited from a burgher that the blonde beauty
was the clever artist who had worked the banner presented to him, and
he had determined on the following day, under plea of thanking her, to
pay a visit to her house. And now, just as he was sadly reflecting on
all that had happened and was yet to happen, the half-veiled figure
advanced as though she were awaiting him. Both were rendered speechless
by this sudden meeting. But Attilio was the first to collect himself.
'I know you well, Madonna,' said he, with a chivalrous obeisance as he
stepped nearer to her. 'You are Gianna the Fair.' 'And I know you too,
Attilio,' replied the beauteous one. 'Who is there in Treviso that does
_not_ know you?' And thereupon both were silent, and both availed
themselves of the shade of the gloomy street, to gaze at each other
more closely than they had done yet, and to the young man it seemed
that her beauty shone in the twilight a thousand times more gloriously
than in the ful